


Among Other Things

by DeanRH



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanRH/pseuds/DeanRH
Summary: Certain moments in the evolution of Dean and Castiel, separately and together.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	1. Sunset

The sun was setting over some Midwestern town with that yearning ache of deep summer.

A dog barked.

A train passed, trundling slowly.

Dean stood in the shadow of the motel window, sucking in the smoke from the Marb between his lips, tightening his teeth behind them.

Breathing in, and hold.

The cloud of smoke on an exhale made the sunset's riot of colors wilder still, while the heat of the world was a wall in front of him receding slightly with the sun.

A roach waddled across the cracks of the windowsill. With a sigh, Dean stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and went to get one of his boots.

The roach squelched against the sill and pulled, glue-tacky, from the bottom of the rubber sole. Dean took it into the bathroom and washed it off in the rusty sink, grimacing the entire time.

He had always been a good shot.

Dropping the boot beside the door again, Dean went to sit at the edge of the bed. He contemplated another cigarette, but decided it was too soon. He had these little rules he made, just in his own head. Some type of order, control - some way to make sense of the world.

The world, that had precious little time left, and he would be spending the end of it alone and unnamed, forgotten in the great and vicious whirl of time, the flame of a candle snuffed out.

Not even a _here lies Dean Winchester_ , to prove he had been here, had loved, _was_ loved.

That last, he was beginning to doubt.

Sam had vanished some time ago with Ruby. They only ever seemed to fight, these days. Dean tried to hold on to family, to friends, hell, even to lovers, though he wouldn't admit that out loud, but they always seemed to slip through his fingers.

Dean didn't even know if Sam had stayed out of love or obligation.

He bowed his head, hands grabbing the edge of the bed, elbows out and muscles tense, as the silent scream of horror, of _please love me_ , of loneliness, scrabbled and clawed to make their way out of Dean's throat and this time it wasn't clear if Dean would win against it. 

But he did, and his heartbeat slowed, and he lifted his head again to look out at the small-town world.

He reached for his pack of cigarettes.

***

"Dean."

The air was still, despite the open window. 

Dean was laying on the bed and smoking toward the ceiling, just to see if he could do it. There was a trick to it, but the risk of the cigarette's cherry falling on his face was one he'd never entertained before.

Now, it didn't matter.

"Cas."

He didn't even look at the angel, who sighed and stepped into the room.

"If you're here to fight, you can forget it," said Dean, sitting up and putting out the cigarette. "If you're here to tell me I need to do something _to_ fight _,_ screw you. Let it burn."

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" Dean demanded. "Me and Sam, and hunters everywhere, for how many years, bled and _died_ to save people, all so - what? God could tear it all down in the end? I ain't goin' to heaven and I don't want to. Everything's crap, so you can tell your boss to fuck off."

"I did," said Castiel, so soft and plain that Dean's heart suddenly ached to hear it.

_That's right, Winchester. He fell because of you. So you somehow damned an angel, too._

Castiel gave him a curious look.

"I'm not damned, Dean," he said. "And neither are you."

"I've had a sad-sack life to show for it," said Dean. "Damned or otherwise."

"That's not why I'm here."

"Then why?"

"You're lonely."

This was so raw and close to the truth that Dean just about exploded in anger, because it _hurt,_ hearing somebody say it out loud like that.

"Fuck off, Castiel," he said, because he was not always eloquent in the moments he wished to be.

"No," growled Castiel.

Dean gave him a sharp look.

"What the hell d'you mean, no?" he shouted. "Get the hell out of here, you wingless dickbag!"

But Castiel stood his ground.

He stared into Dean's eyes.

_God, I wish -_

rushed through him like a whirlwind, but Dean was on a roll, so he just kept shouting, things that were pointed, things that would _hurt -_

things that would make Castiel leave.

 _Should_ make Castiel leave.

But he just stood there, calm, like a rock in the ocean, as the wild waves of Dean crashed and washed against him with as much effect as punching him might have.

"And another thing -" Dean was yelling, although he didn't know what he was going to say and had kind of expected it to show up by the end of the sentence -

when Castiel suddenly yanked him forward by the shirt, and the inner self-saboteur of Dean rejoiced in _finally, finally, a reaction!_ expecting the punch his words deserved -

and then the angel kissed him, _hard,_ all lips and teeth and biting desire -

and Dean sagged against him, an animal sound of relief and joy escaping from him like a deflated balloon.

" _Never,_ " Castiel whispered, as they kissed angrily, and pulled at each other's clothes, " _Never,_ Dean Winchester. I am _never_ going to leave you."

Dean was delirious, or maybe it was the heat. He had never rid himself of his clothing faster, and watching Castiel approach him with angelic light crackling behind his eyes made him wonder _how did I never notice how beautiful...?_

Then Castiel was on him, all of him, engulfing him and bracing him, bracketing Dean's body as he bestowed kisses that felt just as the fall of the cherry would have - burning, and burning, leaving fire in their wake. Dean was openly weeping now, and cursing, and his cock strained hard between them weeping likewise -

but it was not sex. 

Dean had enjoyed plenty of sex in his lifetime. Even the longer nights when he drew it out with whoever his lover _du jour_ had been, it was an action, an activity. Like rock climbing or skiing, another checkmark on the _exercise_ box, a fun way to spend the night.

This was like nothing Dean had ever known. It reminded him far more of ritual, of sacrifice, of the doomed sense of the world, of something so large and infinite the human mind could not comprehend it. The depths and width of the ocean. The extent of the stars. The galaxies unknown folding outside of time and mind. Things humans know, but cannot _know,_ not really.

But this creature worshiping him now _did_ know all those things. Perhaps had been involved in the making of them. Had touched the furthest stars, seen the monstrous glories of the Marianas Trench, knew the answers to every mystery of mankind -

and instead of the lordly and high position he deserved,

was spending the end of days making love to Dean Winchester in a roach-infested motel off the I-35 in some podunk town Dean had already forgotten the name of.

Castiel pulled away from him then, just a little. He smiled down at Dean and shook his head, as if he had gotten something so fundamentally wrong that Castiel actually thought it was charming. Dean saw him seated there on his haunches, all sinew and muscle, cock standing hard and proud, and again thought _how did I never see - how did I not -_ because suddenly he realized that despite having seen all the natural wonders of America, Castiel was the most majestic of them all. Proud and haughty, careless of what anyone but Dean might think, an angel looking down on him with love.

"Dean," said Castiel finally, crawling foward over him, slotting them together as if they were made to fit like puzzle-pieces in this old bed, "of all the universe, of all the things in it - this is the highest and most lordly place I could be. You honor me, Dean Winchester. Anoint me as your lover, and I am the most fortunate of angels."

Dean arched up against him, crying out as he came, under Castiel's ministrations, his words, his lips, his tongue. And the angel did the same, looking all the while as if in awe of something holy.

***

They spent the night wrapped in each other, in much the same way.

Confessions, secrets, fears. The things they thought, all those times they had glanced at each other, all those times caught staring.

The undercurrent of desire running through their every action, the way they had gravitated toward each other, inevitable, unrelenting.

And when they tired of touch, of exploration and making the other moan, rejoicing, they lay tangled together on the ruined bed, listening to each other breathe.

***

The morning came. 

The sun poured pale and watery through the window, an introduction to yet another white-hot day.

Castiel was dressed again, trenchcoat and all.

"Ain't you hot in that?" asked Dean, for something to say. It sounded hollow and stupid, but he figured everything would, after a night like that one. He doubted he would ever be able to really understand what had happened that night, so he let it go.

Castiel shook his head.

"No," he said.

He stepped forward.

He kissed Dean, slow and sweet. 

They broke apart, and Dean could see in Castiel's eyes that they were back to business, now. The end of the world was still approaching. Sam was still out there. Dean inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"The angels are dying," Castiel explained, as he turned toward the door. "I may die, too."

Dean swallowed against the abject terror that inspired in him, and nodded.

"Understood."

"In the meantime, you keep looking for Sam," Castiel advised.

Dean nodded again. He didn't trust himself to speak. There was too much to say, so he said nothing.

He watched, and catalogued, Castiel's every move. Dean knew, once the angel walked out, that this interlude was over. 

Castiel's hand was on the door handle.

"Wait."

Dean bounded from the bed, and kissed Castiel with everything he had, poured everything he was, all he desired, into the kiss. Tears tracked down his face, and Castiel caught them with kisses of his own. The _I love you_ was caught just behind his teeth, but _not now, in a place where those words can be spoken and cherished_ followed, preserving his silence.

Then Dean tore himself away and put distance between them. He stood by the window and gave a sharp nod of understanding and farewell.

Castiel put his hand on the door.

He opened it.

He hesitated.

He cast a look over his shoulder at the shadow of Dean, in the heat of the window, that strange and deep sadness that summer provides in small towns, of once-and-forgotten, and said a single word:

"If."

Dean caught his gaze, and his word, and he held it. No further explanation was needed.

_If we survive. If we save the world. If things turn out in our favor._

_Then -_

Dean nodded, a barely-there incline of the head.

Castiel let out a shuddering breath, closed his eyes in something like relief, and in between one blink of an eye and the next, he was gone.

Dean stood there for a while.

After a time, he reached for the cigarettes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the song Cassiel by Riley Estrada. Go and have a listen if you haven't heard it before.


	2. If, Then

More than a decade later, they had managed to save the world.

But that _if,_ it seemed, still hung in the balance.

Dean wondered if Castiel had forgotten.

They had never mentioned it again, that fevered night in the motel where they confessed everything to each other, breathed it against each other's skin, made promises in the dip between neck and shoulder, ached and rejoiced together, their little secret making them invincible within.

But now-

well, it had been more than ten years.

Things had happened. They had both changed so much as to be almost unrecognizable.

Dean had become his worst nightmare and come back again.

Castiel was one of the last angels in heaven.

There were precious few fights left, as the world stubbornly continued not to end, and the two of them stubbornly continued in silence.

Dean thought maybe - when he allowed himself to think of that night at all - Castiel had gotten wise to his own options and that Dean Winchester didn't stand a chance in the shadow of the glory that was Castiel.

Not that he said things like that out loud, of course.

The god of their universe was dead. They had, for all intents and purposes, inherited the earth.

Free will. For real, this time.

There were still monsters, but Dean found hunting them a little lackluster these days. Still, it was his gig, and what else was he going to do?

So he was sitting and cleaning his guns, which he found zen and meditative, just like working on Baby. 

Which he was also never going to tell anyone either, right up there with the fact that he had copies of _13 Going on Thirty_ and _Legally Blonde_ on his computer. If Sam ever caught him he knew that he might be able to get out of it by claiming he liked them because the leads were hot. Maybe. But it was really because it was nice to watch something that was...just _nice._

He would also plead the fifth about the fact that he had _The Devil Wears Prada_ and _The Princess Diaries._ And a lot more than those, going back some decades now.

As he cleaned, he thought of Sam saying _You love chick flicks._

And Dean had replied _I do._

So maybe Sam already knew. Hard to get anything past that kid.

Although, on the mysterious subject marked _Dean and Castiel,_ Sam had always seemed none the wiser.

Sam was gone now, too. Not in the scary, demon-blood drinking, Ruby-has-her-claws-in-him sense, just that -

well. They were done. 

Sam went off to have a life, building it from tatters, but he seemed to be making good headway the last time Dean saw him. Working on an old house he'd picked up, he said he was happy away from hunting, away from the road.

Dean, on the other hand, had stayed.

He had never known anything else.

Unlike Sam, he had never wanted anything else.

After hell, Dean thought that what they did was necessary. Anything to rid the world of evil was good, in his book.

But ten years after the world didn't end, Dean felt the aches in his trigger finger, his elbow, his hands. He saw the crow's feet crinkling at the edges of his eyes. There were grays now, harder to see in his dark blonde hair than he would have expected, but they were there.

And he was alone, again, in a motel somewhere, working on his guns, because that was all Dean Winchester really knew how to do. 

And he had finally come to accept that it was the life he wanted to live.

He just didn't want to do it alone, like he told Sam all those years ago.

_Fuck it,_ he thought. _I'm better off alone, anyway._

But if that was true, he wouldn't have needed to grit his teeth the way he did at the thought, something else to endure, not to welcome.

The year had faded on into winter. Unlike that hot summer night at the motel that felt like hundreds of years before, this place was cold, and a light snow dusted the windows as Dean worked. The ancient heater had squealed in protest before it clunked on, and unfortunately offered little in the way of heat. It kept the wolf from the door, but just barely. Dean rubbed his chilled hands against his jeans, as some of the pieces of his weapons were cold to the touch.

There was a knock at the door. He was startled out of his reverie.

"Come in," he said, not bothering to look.

There were still monsters out there, sure. But Dean didn't matter so much, in the grand scheme of things, anymore. Monsters weren't out on the hunt for him. He was just another guy, another piece on the chessboard, same as he and Sam had always been before they figured out the grand plans in store for them, when an angel walked into a barn and changed Dean's world forever.

Speaking of which:

"Hello, Dean."

Dean grunted a greeting, and went back to working on his guns.

He knew, with an almost sick inevitability, that Castiel had come to tell him he was leaving.

Heaven was low on angels, after all.

"I wanted to let you know," said Castiel, and Dean braced for impact, "that I'm staying."

Dean froze. He wasn't sure he'd heard that correctly.

He looked up at Castiel.

"The remaining angels were given options," he said. "I chose to stay."

Dean could hardly hear over the blood rushing in his ears, over the voice in his head chanting _oh thank fuck_ over and over again.

"Why?" he finally managed to say. It came out as a croak.

Castiel looked crestfallen.

"You don't remember."

Dean dropped his gaze.

"I remember," he said quietly. "I thought you had forgotten."

"What did I say to you that night, Dean?" asked Castiel. 

" _Never,_ " Dean replied, as if he hadn't played that on repeat in his mind ever since.

"And," said Castiel, "I'm human now. So I will age, just like you."

"What're you sayin', Cas?" asked Dean, because he just needed to hear it.

Castiel stood there for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, or maybe his courage.

"I want to be the one to save you," he said. "Always. I want to be your sanctuary, your safe harbor, your forever. If you would do me the honor, Dean, I would like now to be our _then._ "

Dean just stared up at Castiel wordlessly for a while.

"Yes," he finally said, just a breath, hardly a word. 

Then louder:

"Hell yes."

Castiel smiled.

"Then if you don't mind," he said, "I would like to take you to bed and show you."

"Show me what?"

"What you are to me, Dean Winchester."

Dean set the pieces of his gun down on the bed, and went willingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter inspired by the song Come To Bed by Elizabeth Smart. Another one worth a listen, if you haven't heard it before.


End file.
